The Mystery of Whale Migration
by cruiscin lan
Summary: He doesn't want to be Sylar anymore, but he needs Elle's help to rediscover himself. Sylar/Elle, AU from the end of Season 2.


_**For years, scientists were stumped by the mystery of whale migration. Such a big ocean; how do they find each other?**_ 

*****

He arrives too late.

The front door is shut and locked, and Sylar hesitates for a moment and considers dramatically ripping it from the frame with his telekinetic powers. Deciding that the gesture might alert his quarry to his arrival, he instead uses his power to have the lock undo itself, and he simply lets himself in. A flash of movement catches Sylar's eye, accompanied by a low canine groan. The dog, it's the dog - what is his name, Mr. Puddles or Mr. Scruffles or something? - crouching just beyond the threshold, barking and growling like crazy with his ears flattened against his head.

The Pomeranian follows him from room to room, his guard-dog tendencies simultaneously admirable and laughable.

Finding nothing throughout the house, he enters the kitchen and goes to the fridge, disappointed. If he can't satisfy one hunger, the least he can do is to satisfy another. There's a note hung on the door, dangling from a magnet; the loopy, girlish writing must be Claire's.

_Mom - gone to NY. Gotta find Dad. I'll call you._

Sylar scoffs. He'd only just left New York.

He almost got two new shiny powers, too - locational clairvoyance and black tears of death would have been fun to have, had it not been for that electric bitch.

So he goes back the way he came - plane, train, automobile - whatever way gets him to his destination fastest. It's not until he's lingering outside of Primatech's Hartsdale headquarters, that he reconsiders the wisdom of his plan, however briefly. He's not invincible, he knows, but it's a power worth risking everything for.

That, and he's counting on the orders being "contain and detain" rather than "kill on sight."

He ducks and dodges and kills without compunction until he turns a corner and finds himself face-to-face with _her_ again, that electric _bitch_.

"Sylar," she snarls, lifting her hands, fingers spread, blue sparks shooting across the tips. She holds her palms facing each other, and between them a charge builds up, a ball of blue that glows and grows bigger each moment.

She'd made him into a monster, she'd prevented him from taking even more powers from Maya and the Walker kid (and killing Mohinder, just for fun) and now here she is again, standing her ground at the end of the hall like she's someone to be scared of. But last time they faced off, he had none of his powers, and still lived; this time he's got them back, and she's not going to be so lucky.

"Oh, don't even _try_ it," he warns, and in an instant she's flattened against the wall, arms forced to her sides, face contorted with surprise and alarm.

While she writhes against his unseen power, he approaches her slowly, enjoying the fear evident in her expression. "Hello, Elle," he whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over her gasping. He runs his hand along the side of her face, cocking his head, catlike.

"Sy... Sylar," she chokes, tears springing to her eyes, her mouth twisting.

He places one hand across her throat and brings the other to her face, finger pointed towards her forehead. The blood pounds in his ear like the tick-tock of a clock as he cuts a bright crimson gash across her skin. The hand on her neck starts to tingle - ticklishly at first, then stinging with pain, and he's distracted. He drops his hand and steps back; she shrieks and they are both enveloped in a flash of blue.

*****

When he comes to the first thing he recognizes is the chill of the concrete slab beneath him, hard and smooth and wretchedly uncomfortable. His breath comes in ragged gasps; his nostrils are blocked by tubes, delivering powerful suppressants into his system. He struggles, but the the restraints strapping him down make too much movement impossible. In the bleak blankness of the cell, he can hear the echo of another person's breath, and he turns his head toward the sound as he opens his eyes.

"Hello, Gabriel," says Angela Petrelli.

He swallows back the bile that rises in his throat, his eyes cast hatefully upon her.

"You aren't a killer, Gabriel. You don't want to be that person, I know. You just need a little love, a little guidance - something that a mother _should_ provide for her son."

"My name is Sylar," he snarls at her, "and you are _not_ my mother."

"Oh, but I _am_, dear," Angela coos, running her warm palm gently across his clammy forehead. "I _am_."

Sylar is stricken silent.

"I should never have given you up for adoption," she continues, petting his hair as he stares, incredulous. "I was afraid... I'd had dreams about... well, no matter, I'm here now."

"Are you really... my mother?" Sylar asks, spitting the words out as though they taste bitter in his mouth.

Angela leans over and undoes the strap that holds him down against the hard surface. "If I wasn't your mother, could I trust you this much?" She unfastens the second strap now, and removes the tube from his nose with great care.

It's a hell of a gamble on Angela's part, but Sylar lays still for a moment - belief comes to him more readily than doubt, especially when that belief helps cement his need to be _special_.

*****

He follows her to Bob Bishop's office, wearing a tailored suit she'd provided, complacent as a cat.

Behind the heavy oak door three men wait inside: the man whose name is plated in gold on the door; the Haitian, solemn as ever, standing by himself in the corner like a fly on the wall; and one other, tall and bespectacled and still wearing his coat, like he's ready to leave when Angela enters, smiling.

"Gabriel, this is Noah Bennet. I believe you two have already met," Bob says with disconcerting brightness. "We've decided that you two will be working together."

"Hello Noah. Did you miss me?" Sylar hisses quietly, so that only Bennet can hear him.

"I'm not doing this. Not with him." Bennet doesn't plead or whine; he's simply stating a fact.

"Under the conditions of your _freedom_, Noah, you're obligated to," Bishop replies. "You can either work with him, or go back to Level Five."

Angela tries to cut the tension in the room, interjecting "He's misunderstood, Noah, that's all. He needs a strong hand to guide him, and I think you're just the one to provide it."

When Bennet looks at her, his eyebrows furrow with concern, but he doesn't object.

"Then you two are good to go," Bishop says, breaking the uncomfortable silence, and he lifts a manila folder from his desk and hands it to Bennet. "Here's your first assignment. Go get 'em, boys."

As they move towards the door together, it suddenly flies open and in stalks Elle Bishop, crackling with anger. The odor of ozone quickly fills the office as she waves her finger in Angela's face. "You let him _out_?" she yells, accusatory. "You let that maniac _out_?"

Unruffled, Angela smirks and replies, "I did, Elle. See for yourself, he's standing right behind you."

She whirls around, the fringe on her forehead flying up to momentarily reveal the bandage still there. "You!" she hisses, and she extends her arm threateningly. The Haitian steps forward and places his hand on her wrist, a gentle reminder that she can do no harm. "It's _your_ fault that this happened!"

"That what happened?" Sylar asks, his confusion just barely edging out the rancor in his voice.

Bishop intervenes. "Her electrical outburst shut down the security system downstairs, while also knocking you unconscious. Most of the Level Five prisoners escaped; that's why we require your assistance in this matter."

"They've taken me off active duty because I'm too _volatile_," she sneers. "And it's only because _you_ tried to _kill_ me."

"And you weren't trying to kill _me_?" Sylar growls back, caught up in this petty back-and-forth against his better judgement. Bennet only rolls his eyes.

"Elle, this isn't the time or the place for this," her father warns. "If you have a problem with your job, then you can lodge a formal complaint."

"But Daddy..."

He hands her a form and returns to his cushy seat behind his desk, ignoring her sulkish stare.

Sylar feels Bennet's hand on his shoulder, his voice in his ear. "Let's get out of here," Bennet whispers, "before things get _really_ ugly."

*****

The first mission goes well, despite the friction between the two agents working it. It's evident that Noah's not fond of being partnered with the man who's blatantly been hunting his daughter and threatening his family, but even he would have to admit that Sylar is a proficient learner with this on-the-job training. Bagging and tagging had never been so quick and easy.

With their target efficiently parceled and delivered to the nearest Primatech lab site, the two men linger in the parking lot as Bennet checks in with his wife.

"Everything went fine. Yeah. New partner, really efficient.... his name's Gabriel, I don't think you know him," Sylar overhears, but he's not one to judge. It's for the woman's own good, after all. She'd probably be frantic if she knew who her husband was working with now.

Bennet exchanges a few more pleasantries with his wife, asking after each of the kids. When he asks how Claire's doing, he grows silent and solemn, and the conversation ends quickly after that.

"Trouble on the home front?" Sylar asks nonchalantly, not at all concerned that he'd just been eavesdropping.

Bennet sucks in a breath and leans against the outside of the vehicle, his lips pursed as he decides whether or not he wants to answer Sylar's pointed question. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," he finally replies. "Claire hasn't been home since she came looking for me in New York."

"She's, what, seventeen?" Sylar asks, emulating concern. "What about school? Where's she even staying?"

"I guess she's staying with the Petrellis," Bennet answers. "But she hasn't tried to contact me; I only heard about it through Angela. I thought you would have already known, since you're her _son_ and all."

"Yeah, well," Sylar hisses, "we aren't exactly _close_."

"I guess this makes you Claire's biological uncle," Bennet adds. He can't disguise the relief in his voice at the realization. Even a psychopath can understand that she's off-limits by dint of that fact.

"I guess it does," Sylar replies. Even though he couldn't prove it, he feels like he knows something that Bennet doesn't. He can understand that Claire's off-limits; that doesn't mean his foolish brothers do.

There's an uncomfortable pause in their dialogue, and Bennet seizes the opportunity to change the subject. "So Elle Bishop seemed pleased to see you again, didn't she? That's a nice scar you gave her, by the way."

"She seemed just as happy to see you," Sylar snaps back. He's still smarting from the tongue-lashing she gave him earlier, and he doesn't care to be reminded of how he let her get away with it. At the mention of her name, he seethes inside, counting up all the different reasons he hates her now.

"She wasn't always like that, you know," Bennet remarks. "She used to be such a sweet girl. Maybe a little naive."

Sylar narrows his eyes. "That was an act."

Bennet's eyebrows peak upwards, and he turns toward Sylar, shoving his hands in his pockets. "That's the funny thing - it wasn't. She was more herself with you than she's ever been with her father."

"How do you know what she's really like?"

Bennet pauses. "We were partners," he says slowly, deliberately, his words carefully chosen. "We worked together on that assignment, you know - tracking you, observing you..."

"Wait, your job was to... _observe_ me?"

"In the act."

"Why not just a regular bag-and-tag, like everybody else?"

"Aw, Gabriel," Noah says, smiling sardonically. "Don't you know you're _special_?"

"Fuck you."

"We have to approach more volatile targets with greater care. Got to know what we're up against, after all."

"So you had to see me kill someone and take their power, is that right?"

"Just so we'd know what to expect if and when we needed to apprehend you," Noah replies, the tone of his voice all business-as-usual. But as he opens the car door he lowers his head and the next thing he comes out more sincerely. "Elle didn't want to do it. I mean she _really_ didn't want to do it."

Sylar is stone-faced as he climbs into the passenger seat, but the gears in his head are backing up, shifting, trying to make the things Noah's telling him work with the way he remembers events unfolding. He says solemnly, "She tried to stop me."

Noah simply stares straight ahead, caught in his own recollection. "It was kind of you to let her get away," he observes.

Sylar is silent and slumps into his seat, not even bothering with the seatbelt.

"Something that _Gabriel_ would have done, am I right? Showing her a small mercy like that."

Sylar doesn't know how to respond. He rolls the thought uncomfortably over in his mind, like turning over a rock to see the grime underneath it. It's the truth, but it's ugly, and he's not sure he's ready for it.

"She hasn't been the same since," Noah sighs as he draws his seatbelt across his waist. "I'm sure you know that already."

As the engine starts up the radio comes on and silences their conversation. The noise drowns out Sylar's thoughts, which is fine by him. They weren't much fun to dwell on anyway, and they were all about somebody he used to know.

_**Then one night in the frozen Pacific, some enterprising biologist recorded their song in the wild.**_

Angela Petrelli, for all the liberties she seems to grant him, still has Gabriel on a short leash. At the end of every workday he returns to his cell on Level Five, changing from his crisp suit into a set of drab pajamas.

She visits with him at night, trying to build up a relationship with him. Yes, she lied about being his mother to use him, but he's obviously lost without a parental figure in his life. A little white lie can do no harm, and in this case it can only help. It's the only way she can think to keep him under control, and besides that, she finds that she looks forward to seeing him at the end of the day. She asks him how his day goes, and he asks about hers. Even if there's nothing genuine behind the ritual, it's reassuring at least to go through the motions.

"How was your mission with Bennet today?"

"It went well, actually," Sylar says.

"There's something I want to ask you," he says.

She cradles his face in her palm, smiling with maternal affection. "Well, what is it?"

"It's about Elle."

"What about her, dear?"

"Bennet said she used to be different," Sylar says.

Angela folds her hands and her expression reads of concern. "Maybe she was, a long time ago. I don't remember."

"I just want to help her," he says defensively, as though Angela had disagreed with him somehow.

"Gabriel, you have to do what's best for _you_ right now. And looking out for others - well, that's a very important thing, and I wish more people thought like that. But you're not in any state to help anyone else right now." It's not that she didn't believe he was capable of it - in fact, that was what she was _afraid_ of. Better to keep him under reigns for the time being.

When she leaves, he reclines on the mattress they've provided for him, the mattress that lies across the cold, concrete slab in the center of the cell. His mind races with thoughts he can't drown out any longer. Desperately he takes the pieces of the puzzle and tries to make them fit one another: How does Gabriel fit with Sylar? How does Sylar fit with Elle? How does Elle fit with Gabriel?

The answer doesn't come to him until after he's been overtaken by sleep. When he wakes up in the morning, surrounded by the cold, artificial light, he realizes that Sylar can't fit into the puzzle, not in the jigsaw he's trying to create for himself.

Two guards open the door, one with a breakfast tray and the other with a clean suit. "Here you go, Sylar," one says, handing him the suit, while the other places the tray on the makeshift bed.

"It's Gabriel now," he corrects them. "My name is Gabriel Gray."

*****

He decides it's about time to confront her, to confess. When he returns from his next mission, he stalks her in the corridors, waiting for her to turn down a deserted hallway. It's a futile endeavor - even if she's alone, the hallways are never empty, agents and aides and orderlies always milling aimlessly about.

But one morning - he doesn't know the hour, the light in his cell is always the same - he wakes before the guards arrive, and when he stirs he sees her watching him through the shatter-proof pane. She's dressed to the nines, as usual, wearing a professional suit with princess seams, royal blue blouse beneath.

"Come here often?"

"I just like to see you locked up," she tells him, her words dripping with malice. "This is my favorite part of the day."

"Still burned about your job?" he asks, the question tinged with a meanness he doesn't intend. He rubs the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands. With clearer vision comes better manners. "Why don't you come inside? Make yourself comfortable."

"Like hell."

Gabriel gets out of his bed and walks over to the glass, placing his palms against the surface and looking up at the woman on the other side. He studies her - the way her thumb moves nervously across the gabardine of her sleeve, the way her lip curls ever-so-slightly at the corner with contempt, the edge of the bandage still visible underneath her bangs.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You're... you're sorry?" she asks, suspicious.

"Do you accept my apology?"

She eyes him, cynical. "No. Not at all." She bites her lip. "But I will come inside."

She enters a code in the keypad outside the door and lets herself in. Gabriel stands awkwardly at the glass, unsure of how to proceed from here. He _did_ only just wake up.

"Well?" she prods him. "Were you just looking for company or did you actually want to discuss something?"

"I'm trying to be different," he tells her, almost blurting it out. "I really am sorry. I don't want to be Sylar anymore."

Her mouth forms a tiny _o_ as she exhales, unconvinced. "Well, good luck with that. Have fun with your lifestyle change."

"I need you to believe what I'm telling you," he says, trying to hide the desperation in his voice. She had believed in him once before; she was the _only_ one that believed in him, then. He knows that he needs to earn it back. "I can do it."

Elle taps the toe of her shoe on the floor impatiently. "Look, Sylar, you can't go back to who you used to be, _especially_ not if you're working here. This place ruins people."

"What about Bennet?" Gabriel wonders out loud. "He's got it all. Wife, kids..."

"She's just a beard he keeps for his job," Elle says nastily. "Trust me, when he's on a mission she's the furthest thing from his mind."

"How do you know?"

"He told you I was his partner, didn't he?" she asks, her smile twisting wickedly.

Gabriel's eyes narrow with disdain. "He'd _never_ do that to her. Especially not with _you_, not with who you were then."

"He _made_ me who I am now," she retorts. "Just how do you think he did that?"

She's trying to mess with him, he can see that. What he doesn't understand is why. What does she hope to accomplish by sullying Bennet's image with him? What purpose does she serve in making herself look the slut in the process?

And then he realizes she has everything to lose. He remembers what Bennet told him about the mission, how it had affected her. But it wasn't Noah who'd been the one to change her.

"You used to be sweet and naive," Gabriel says out loud as his understanding falls into place. "You used to be innocent. You got to close to someone when you were on a mission and it ruined you."

Elle rolls her eyes and sucks in her breath in frustration. "Yeah. I know. I just told you." And then under her breath - "dumbass."

He ignores her and continues, slowly stepping towards her. "It wasn't Noah who changed you. You didn't fall for him. You fell for _me_."

The blues of her eyes flash with electric anger. "That is _so_ not true," she hisses.

"You can be that person again if you tried, Elle," he tells her, his voice turning soft and soothing. "I'm trying to be Gabriel again. We can go back to what it was like when we first met, start over, try again."

"You can't have that between you and me, _Gabriel_," Elle says snidely. "It was a long time ago, and lightning never strikes twice."

He wants her; he wants her badly. "It does so," he replies, twining his fingers into her hair and working up a static charge across her scalp. He clutches the side of her head and forces her lips to his, pushing his tongue into her teeth. He paws at her, hands running across her shoulders, her sleeves, tingling with electricity down her arm.

She's hesitant at first, but tentatively responds in kind, letting her palms press into his chest, slowly spreading around his torso from there. There's crackling where her fingertips reach the edge of his shirt, and it makes his cock stand suddenly erect. She gasps when she feels his hardness against his thigh, suddenly enthralled by the power she has over him.

"Not _this_," he whispers plaintively into Elle's ear. His eyes dart from one camera in the corner of the room to the other. The last thing he needs is to be caught on surveillance by Bishop. It's one thing to make out a little, but he can't imagine a faster way to land back on Level Five then by boning the boss's daughter. "Not here. Not now."

"Why the fuck not?" she asks, her eyes glimmering with devilry. Before he has a chance to respond, she's untying the front of his pajamas and thrusting her hand underneath his clothing, searching for his cock through the fabric of his boxers.

"There's..." he gasps as she weaves her hand through his fly and wraps her warm hand around the shaft of his member. "There's cameras," he says finally, stuttering, leaning against the wall for extra support.

With her free hand, Elle blasts the corners of the room, one at a time, until any and all traces of cameras are obliterated. "Happy now?" she asks, bringing her hand to his cheek and touching the corner of his lip with her thumb.

When she drops to her knees, he plants his palms firmly on the wall in front of him, letting all his weight fall there to make up for the way his knees are trembling. He lets his head fall to his chest, and when he opens his eyes, they meet hers; she lifts her gaze as she plays with the head of his cock in her mouth, the blue offset by his vibrant member, pumped full of blood. The playful expression on her face is too much for him to take, and he doesn't mean to but he comes without even a warning to Elle.

His surprise is, unfortunately, written all over her face. Her expression suddenly turns from playfulness to bafflement, and she releases Sylar's now-shrinking member and dabbing the dribble delicately.

The blood from Gabriel's member has drained from there in order to flush his face with embarrassment. "I - I - I - I'm sorry, Elle!" he says, the pitch of his voice volatile in his panicked shame. "I didn't mean to... That was an accident!"

She's quiet for a moment, still trying to grasp what just happened. When she does finally speak, it's a simple request. "Got a tissue?"

He fumbles in his pockets, hoping to find something suitable, finding the handkerchief Angela Petrelli had given him. He hands it to her, his hand trembling, and Elle takes it and immediately starts swabbing away his cum. "I didn't mean to do that," he tells her when he calms down enough to keep his voice in its normal register.

"It's all right, Gabriel," she says, blotting the last of his ejaculate away, but her tone says otherwise.

"Elle, I can't even -"

"Just stop _apologizing_!" she snaps as she rises to her feet, and he bites his lip to keep from speaking.

He tries to take heart in the fact that the first time is awkward for everyone, but he just wishes it hadn't been with someone he cared for so much.

*****

"What happened to the cameras in here?" Angela asks when she stops by for her evening visit.

Gabriel crosses his arms and mutters like a sullen teenager. "I don't know," he lies.

"It looks like an electrical fire. Maybe the wiring needs to be replaced."

Gabriel closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. "It was Elle. Elle was here today."

"Is that so?" Angela asks, her voice lilting with genuine curiosity. "Why did she do this?"

"I don't know," Gabriel says, lying again, unable to help himself. He can't tell her the truth; she's his mother, what would she even think? "I think she's mad at me."

"That's... that's ridiculous, why would she be _mad_ at you?"

"Because I made her who she is. It's my fault that she's crazy."

"Now, now, Gabriel, stop being ridiculous," Angela tsks, sitting on Gabriel's bed beside him. "It's not your fault."

"She was different before she went on that mission."

"What mission?"

"To observe me. To watch me kill."

"Oh, Gabriel, if only you knew. That girl was destined to be a screw-up anyway; that it happened after she met you is a coincidence, and nothing more."

"What do you mean, Mother?" he asks. It's the first time he's used that term to address her, and she's jarred by it.

"The truth, Gabriel?"

"I want to know _everything_."

The corners of Angela's mouth pull unhappily across her face. "The truth, unabridged then," she said, her voice suddenly serious. "Her father coaxed her power into manifesting early. She burned her grandmother's house down as a child, killing most of her family. Her father put her in a Cleveland facility after that, but it wasn't built to hold the electrical charges she could produce, so after a multi-county blackout she came to live here, in Hartsdale."

"You mean in the building?"

"For years. Her father seized the opportunity to prod her powers further. The human brain isn't made to withstand the kind of charges she's capable of; it's amazing she hasn't killed herself yet."

Her words sink in and cut him to the bone. He bites his lip so hard he doesn't notice he's bleeding until the metallic taste is on his tongue, and absently he reaches up and tries to wipe the blood away. "Mother," he says again, plaintive, pleading almost.

"What, dear? What is it?"

"I think I can fix her, Mother."

"Oh, Gabriel," Angela sighs, "It's not your responsibility to fix every broken person in this world. There are simply too many."

"But Elle - I want to. I owe her the chance, at least."

"If that's really what you want," Angela says, "then you have my blessing."

As the door shuts behind her and she's gone from Gabriel's view, she shakes her head. "It's not like he can make her any _crazier_."

*****

Asking to be partnered with her is out of the question - they're both specials, for one thing, so it would be against policy to begin with. Besides that, asking Bob Bishop for some one-on-one time with Elle doesn't appeal to Gabriel in the slightest. And so the next few times they meet, it's because of his stealth and natural stalking ability.

They pass each other a few times in various corridors of the Hartsdale building; she never makes eye contact, never blushes, never seems to register his presence at all. It's discouraging, but Gabriel knows at least that she's willfully ignoring his existence when she starts changing her routes to avoid him.

Next he graduates to physical contact - accidental bumps, occasional brushes, and the eventual forcing his way into crowded elevators when it's too late for her to get off.

The next phase in his plan is verbal communication, but one day she's agitated enough to beat him to the punch. "Stop _following_ me, Gabriel," she snaps at him after he treads on the toes of her stilettos. "It's not cute and it's not funny."

"I'm not trying to be cute or funny," he replies, secretly thrilled that she calls him by his name. "I don't know what you could possibly mean."

"Hilarious, Gabriel - hilarious," she retorts, crossing her arms over her chest like a petulant child. "I'll bet you and Bennet had a good laugh over that _one_ time..."

Gabriel can't help but smile when he realizes she's just as embarrassed by their half-successful tryst as he is. "I never talked about it to anyone. I never _would_."

Elle suspends her hand in the air between them. "Yeah, well, yeah, you better not," she threatens uncertainly. Electricity sparkles between her fingers, and Gabriel's entranced by the starkness of the light it casts across Elle's collarbone. "And stop staring at my chest."

From there she warms up to him again, each meeting more promising then the next, until one day he feels confident enough to ask her out. He needs to get special permission from Angela Petrelli to borrow a car for a day, but she lets him take his pick of company vehicles without any hassle. The way he's encouraged by Angela's trust shows in his approach to Elle, who's taken by surprise and agrees.

The car ride to the coastal state park is awkward at best, and when they get there the clouds hang low and threaten to drizzle, but at least it means they have the place to themselves. They leave their shoes in the car and follow the shoreline, talking lowly and walking slowly.

The wind comes over the waves in salty gusts, and Gabriel closes his eyes as he drinks in the air. He lets his hands fall to his sides, and she takes up the closer one in her own.

He kisses her. It's impulsive yet deliberate, and as their lips press together their breath mingles; her essence penetrates right into his lungs, and gently he reaches up and puts her hair behind her ear.

They lean into one another, and Elle lets Gabriel trace the edge of her jaw with his lips. She clutches his shoulders, and he wraps his hands around her waist. Together they sink to the ground, kneeling and then reclining onto the sandy shoreline, the slight damp seeping into their clothes.

For a while, the two of them lie in the sand, facing one another and tracing each others' silhouettes with cool, curious fingers. In either direction there's no sign of human life as far as the foggy horizons, and as far as they know they could be alone in the world. It's chilly out but they have the warmth offered by one another; they lose their clothing and the friction of skin enough skin is enough to keep them cozy.

They inch close enough for Gabriel to throw a leg up on Elle, and she snakes hers in between his thighs so they can meet in the middle. Their eyes lock as they rock slowly, gently in tandem. Her breath goes ragged with anxiety, or anticipation, or both, and Gabriel pauses and kisses her deeply, holding her chin between his thumb and his forefinger.

After they come, she curls into him and he holds her in his arms like a doll. He tickles the back of her ears with his nose, and she startles. When she turns over to face him, he sees her eyes watering, ready to cry.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"For what?"

"We can't be... we can't be who you want us to be," she tells him, unable to lift her face to meet his. Instead she traces idly in the sand between them. "You can be Gabriel - I believe it, I believe you're Gabriel now - but I'm already too fucked up."

"No, you're not," he insists. "If I can get past what I've done as Sylar, then you can get past whatever it is that you're afraid of."

"I don't think I can, Gabriel," she says, her voice beginning to waver now. "I won't make a good girlfriend or lover or wife or whatever it is you're looking for. I'm not good for anything but working for the Company."

"But that's just who your _father_ wants you to be." A few grains of sand cling to the corners of her eye. He lifts his hand to her face and gently strokes them away with his thumb. She smiles appreciatively but can't help blushing, suddenly self-conscious - she's never been with someone so attentive before. "You can be more than that if you tried."

She starts pulling her clothing back on, and he follows suit. Once dressed, they sink back into the sand, sitting side by side. He reclines back on his arms, and she lays her head against his chest.

The clouds vanish and the coastal sky is, for the first time all day, clear. They both look to the deep void, but while one sees the shimmering of infinite stars the other only sees the cold, blank spaces in between them.

*****

Gabriel finds himself, for once, in Bishop's ornate office again, only this time without the usual company of Angela or Bennet. He's been called for alone, him specifically, and judging by Bishop's demeanor, it's not a welcome kind of visit.

There's no mistaking that Bob Bishop is absolutely livid. His eyes are narrowed into tiny black seeds, receding into his ruddy face. "What is the meaning of this?"

He can tell why Bob is upset with him - perhaps it's an outgrowth of his intuitive aptitude, or perhaps it's merely a basic understanding of how fathers work - but he decides to play it safe and act dumb. "I asked my mother - Angela Petrelli - for the car. You can verify that with her."

Bishop is glaring at him, his jowls shaking. "You _know_ that's not the reason I'm upset. I'm upset because my daughter was gone for six hours this afternoon, and I believe you have something to do with it."

"The Company's policy of employee relationships is clearly outlined in -"

Bob interrupts. "You're getting ahead of yourself, Mr. Gray. You aren't technically an employee of Primatech - you're an inmate here, a captive. An indentured servant working for room and board."

Gabriel's a little peeved at the remark, but stoically returns to form. "Then I don't understand the issue, if it's not a violation of company policy."

"It's a violation of _personal_ policy. Stay away from my daughter."

"Mr. Bishop, I understand your concern, but your daughter is a grown woman who is capable of making her own decisions. If she has a day off, then she should be welcome to spend it however - and with whoever - she pleases."

"That's just it, Mr. Gray, she's a grown woman but she most certainly isn't _capable_. Why do you think she lives here in the building? Why is it she's paired with our most proficient agents on missions? She's only capable of two things, Gray - you should know that by now."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow quizzically. "I don't know what you mean. What two things?"

"Being a weapon. And being bait."

Gabriel seethes. _There's _more_ to her than that,_ he wants to say, but he bites his tongue.

"And, as rudimentary as her role is to this Company, she's still an asset," Bishop continues. "An asset I'd rather not have _damaged_."

"Like you haven't damaged her enough already," Gabriel retorts, unable to hold back any longer. "She obviously deserves to have _someone_ care for her, since you've failed her as a father."

"I didn't invite you in here to have my parenting critiqued!"

"Then what _did_ you call me in for?"

"You've outlived your usefulness here, now that all the Level Five escapees have been detained," he begins. "As long as you're no longer a danger to society, you're free to go, but keep in mind you will be monitored. Closely." Bob's lips form a narrow line across his chin. "In other words, you're fired. The Haitian will escort you off the premises."

*****

_**They don't sing in captivity. **_  Angela helps find him his own apartment in Queens, not far from where he grew up. She even gives him an allowance, just as she did for her _real_ children, but he takes a job anyway at a vacuum repair shop. It's the solitary sort of work he was used to before meeting Chandra, before giving in to his obsessive need to be special. In some ways, this reassures him; it's an echo of his former life, a reflection of his attempt to return to what he once was. He doesn't practice his powers at all anymore; he doesn't _need_ them like he used to.  At the same time, it's dreadfully lonely, and every time the door chime sounds it takes every ounce of his willpower not to rise from his seat in the back room to see if it's someone he used to know. Soon he drowns out the sound altogether.  So it's particularly jarring when he hears her voice. "Anyone here?" it inquires. He convinces himself he's hearing things, and then he feels a pair of arms snake around his waist, he feels her pert bosom pressing into his back, and he drops what he's doing in surprise.  His heart skips a beat when she whispers in his ear, "I missed you."  He takes her back to his place, absently hitting the button on his old-fashioned answering machine out of habit. Bennet's voice comes through the speaker, concerned as usual. They never did get along, the two of them, but Bennet calls every so often with updates, in the event they ever need to team up again. Every voicemail is the same - Bennet gives a brief rundown of "acquired targets" and those considered "still at large" - but after a pause in the message Bennet gets personal.  "I'm... I'm worried about Claire, Gabriel. If you happen to run into her out there on the East Coast, just let her know we're trying to get in contact. Her mother misses her, even Lyle."  "Who's Lyle?" Gabriel asks out loud.  "Her brother, dumbass," Elle laughs, throwing her arms around his shoulders and nipping his ear playfully. "Turn that thing off. It's not right to mix business and pleasure."  "I think she's followed Nathan to Pinehe-" Bennet's voice says before it's cut off. 

*****

One visit leads to another, and another, and another, and before long she's been seeing him surreptitiously for weeks, for months. When given half the chance she takes the Metro North down to Manhattan, taking two subway trains to get to his repair shop. She doesn't call ahead; she doesn't want to get his hopes up in the event she's called back before she even reaches the city. He offers to come up to Hartsdale to see her, but she refuses. Part of the appeal is the sneaking out, the stolen liberty, and besides that, she doesn't know how her father would handle it if he were to find out.

Even with little notice, Gabriel's prepared for a variety of dates. As the seasons change, so do their activities: long walks to the art museum in Flushing Meadows-Corona Park in the fall; ice-skating there in the winter; visits to the nearby Queens Zoo in the spring. With him, she tries Indian food for the first time, and Thai, and Dominican. Sometimes they see movies when the weather is bad, and sometimes they stay in and Gabriel tries out recipes he finds online. Elle thinks even his failures are delicious.

Elle never knows what to expect when she's with Gabriel - that's part of why she keeps going back to him. Sometimes they rent a movie and make out on the couch like teenagers, letting their hands nervously wander over their clothing. Sometimes he takes her shirt off slowly, and she's glad that he notices how cute her bra is. Sometimes he tears it off with an immediacy that she can feel rising between his legs, pressing into her thighs. When she's able to stay the night, he lifts her in his arms and carries her to the bedroom.

She can't stay tonight, though, but she can't help herself. A good song comes on the radio, and in the course of dancing around Gabriel's apartment, her clothes seem to come off on their own. He can't keep up with her moves; while the music is playing she thrusts her hips and gyrates like a wild woman, laughing all the while. Finally he manages to wrap his arms around her waist and whisk her to the bedroom, where he lays her on the bed and rolls her tight jeans over the tops of her thighs. The song's faded to a commercial break, but Elle continues thrashing when Gabriel lowers his mouth into her curls, letting his tongue follow the hidden crevice to her core. She shudders as she comes, but he stops only for a moment before grasping her hips and pinning her down again. She's dizzy with pleasure now, but he keeps licking and pressing and sucking in all the right ways. She squeals with delight, grasping his hair and shocking him a little without realizing it, and he stops what he's doing and flips her onto her stomach, hoisting her up on all fours. He climbs onto the mattress behind her and unfastens his own pants, taking her from behind. When she climaxes again, practically shrieking, he comes too. Exhausted now, they fold into one another's arms a moment later, relishing the embrace more than the actual act.

*****

"Will you be able to come next week?" he asks, gazing at her without the filter of the glasses he's taken to wearing again.

"I can try. Why?"

"I'd just like to make plans, if that's all right. Take you out somewhere fancy and expensive, like you deserve."

She can't help smiling. "Friday all right?"

"Friday's perfect," he tells her. "I'm going to shower quickly so I can walk you back to the subway stop."

"Sounds good."

While he's in the bathroom, she gathers up her clothes and frowns at the wrinkles in them. She goes to his closet, looking for his ironing board, and in the course of her search she comes across a small bag with fancy metallic lettering. Curiosity gets the better of her, and she reaches inside, pulling out a small velvet case.

Inside there's a ring, a small diamond on a platinum gold band. Elle shuts the case quickly and stashes it back in the bag, back where she found it, her chest tightening. She shuts the closet door and dresses in her rumpled clothing, suddenly not concerned with her appearance.

*****

She thinks she's been outsmarting her father all this time, vanishing only when he's away on business, trying to recruit more scientists and doctors and anyone else whose qualifications could prove useful to the Company, but when she arrives back at the Hartsdale campus, it's already locked down for the night, and the guards have to call her father to get her clearance.

She'd missed her stop on the Metro North train because she'd been too lost in thought. The ring was beautiful, it really was, but the thought behind it was unsettling to her.

Her father gruffly approves her entry, provided she meet him in his office before she goes to her quarters. When she arrives he's already there, and though it's late he's still in his work clothes. _He's been waiting for me_, she realizes, and she stands behind a chair rather than sitting down.

"I know you've been seeing him, Elle," he says, and there's nothing more chilling to Elle than the lack of expression in his words - no tone of fatherly concern, nor of warning, nor malice. It's a simple statement of fact. "If you _continue_ this liaison, you _will_ be terminated. Do you understand that?"

Her lips turn down at the corners, and she crosses her arms like an angry child. "My personal life doesn't interfere _at all_ with my professional life," she retorts.

"It does when your father is your boss," Bob replies, folding his hands. "And if you don't break it off with Sylar, then I'll be neither your boss _nor_ your father anymore."

"His name is _Gabriel_," she mutters, but there's no strength in her voice anymore, and even if Bob hears her comment he acts as though he doesn't.

"This meeting is over. I'll see you here nine A.M. Monday morning for your next assignment."

"Yes, Daddy," she says, compliant, but when she leaves his office she slams the door behind her.

*****

She intends to break it off with Gabriel before their date that night, but he's so damn chatty the entire way there she can't squeeze a word in edgewise. Her stomach turns.

It's a nice restaurant, a much nicer place than Elle had expected, frankly, and even in her designer clothes she feels out of place and underdressed. Gabriel looks even more out of place, wearing sweater vest under his suit jacket, and yet he seems vastly more comfortable in this atmosphere.

They check their coats and the hostess shows them to their table, which is located on a dais next to a plate-glass window overlooking the Hudson. The surface of the river glimmers as it reflects the lights of the Manhattan skyline. Elle figures that he must have called _weeks_ ago to ensure such a seat with such a view in such a restaurant with such a crowd.

Like a gentleman, Gabriel pulls a chair out from the table for Elle. She smiles weakly as she sits down, and he smiles widely back.

"This is nice," Gabriel says as he takes his seat across from her. He folds and unfolds his hands nervously, unable to keep his attention focused on anything for more than a moment at a time. He picks up the menu and hastily sets it down again. He straightens the plates on the table and lines up the silverware fussily. He peruses the wine list, making offhand remarks about the offerings while repeatedly taking of his glasses to wipe the lenses before putting them on again.

Just watching him makes her dizzy. "I have to go to the bathroom," she tells him.

"Now? Already?"

"I'll be right back," she says, grabbing her bag from the floor as she steps down from the dais and hurries to the corridor with the word "Restrooms" clearly marked above.

She goes past the ladies washing their hands and fixing their makeup and lets herself into the stall at the furthest end of the room. Once there, she leans up against the cool tile wall, letting herself slide down the smooth surface until she's sitting on the floor. She rests her chin against her chest for a moment, pressing her palms against her cheeks and then pushing the heels of her hands gently into her eyes. She inhales deeply, hoping that the scent of generic bathroom cleaner could bring her mental clarity.

It doesn't.

As the toilet in another stall flushes, Elle tilts her head back to keep tears from falling freely down her cheeks. She sighs again, trying to calculate how long she'd been gone, and how much longer she can stay before Gabriel comes looking for her. Another few minutes pass before she forces herself to her feet, dabbing at the sides of her eyes with a few sheets of bunched-up toilet paper as she exits the restroom.

"Is something the matter, Elle?" Gabriel asks as she returned to her seat.

She mumbles something, her hands fluttering across her table setting.

Gabriel looks worriedly over the rims of his glasses. "I didn't hear you."

"I just don't feel well, is all," she snaps back. She rests her head against the palm of her hand, massaging one temple between her thumb and her forefinger. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"I... I know, I just..."

"And you know my stomach's been funny all week. I don't know why you insisted we go out to eat," she adds, unable to hide her irritation at the whole situation.

Gabriel's hand lingers on his thigh, where he can feel the outline of the jewelry box securely in his pocket through the fabric of his pants. "I just thought..." he starts, but he stops before reaching even the middle of the sentence, realizing how wishy-washy he sounds. The corners of his mouth pull downwards into a frown; already this evening was not going at all how he had planned. "Perhaps we should change the subject. Did you see the..."

Elle feels a sudden pang in her gut, and she lurches forward in her seat, feeling genuinely nauseous now. "I have to use the bathroom again," she interrupts. Her hands tremble as she pushes herself away from the table, blinking from light-headedness.

"Again?"

She rises out of her seat, leaving her purse dangling on the back of her chair this time, as she hurries again through the dining room. With each step she feels worse, and when she reaches the door to restroom she can feel herself losing her balance. She sidesteps the door to the bar just beyond. Reaching out, she grips to smooth, varnished edge of the bar with both hands to steady herself. Slowly she sets her forehead against the cool surface, closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of wood polish before she loses consciousness and tumbles backwards to the floor.

*****

"Elle? Elle, can you hear me?"

She can feel the cool, hard floor beneath the soles of her stocking feet. Did someone take her shoes off?

"Elle, are you feeling all right?"

She opens her eyes slowly, her vision swims. She wants to say _of course I don't feel all right, you jackass_ but what she says instead is "Did I pass out?" The weakness of her own words dismays her.

"They want to call an ambulance," Gabriel tells her.

"No - no, I'll be fine," Elle says quickly. "Let's just go home. Please, let's just go home." She turns to Gabriel, repeating earnestly "Please. Let's go home."

He's hesitant for a moment, and she squeezes his hand.

*****

"I can't do this anymore, Gabriel. I'm not made for this sort of life. I was trained to be an agent. I _have_ to be an agent. I _want_ to be an agent."

"You _can_ do that. Bennet did it."

"Bennet is..." Elle crosses her arms and looks down at the floor. "Bennet is a different story, okay? For once this isn't _about_ Bennet. This is about _me._"

"But you can have it both ways. You can be a full-time agent and a full-time... a full-time..." Gabriel pauses, unsure of his phrasing. He starts again. "You can be a full-time agent and have a full-time family, too."

"A _family_? With _me_?" Elle throws her hands into the air to hide their trembling. "I'm a sociopath, Gabriel. You can't trust me with _kids_. If that's the kind of life you wanted to have, you should have hooked up with the cheerleader."

The bile rose up her throat again as Elle sank into the plush living chair.

"You should see a doctor."

"I'm fine, Gabriel."

"I want you to see a doctor."

"I'm _fine_."

"No, you're clearly not."

"I'm... I'm stressed. That's all."

"You're stressed. You haven't been sleeping well. Your stomach feels funny. Your achey. You're tired. You're aren't fine."

"I found the ring."

"You... what?"

"I found the ring, Gabriel. I knew it was coming. I've known it was coming."

But even then, supposed to now be unburdened of this terrible secret, Elle felt the burn of bile in her mouth.

"Elle? Elle, where are you going? If you're not feeling well, I don't want you to go out by yourself."

"I'm just running to the fucking pharmacy, Gabriel," she says with more malice than intended. She pauses for a minute, inhales, collects herself. "I'm just going to the pharmacy. I'll be back soon."

"I want to come with you."

"I just need a few minutes to be alone, Gabriel," she tells him, but she can't look him in the eye to say so as she walked out the door.

*****

She blinks in the light - too harsh, too bright - and heads straight for the aisle with over-the-counter medications. She just wants something for her headache. And her backache. And, come to think of it, her sore breasts. And definitely her upset stomach.

She's overcome by another wave of nausea, and she rests her head against the shelf until the feeling passes, not caring whether the shelf leaves an awkward pattern of red marks on her forehead. Sighing, she resumes looking at all the different packages of medicines, comparing prices and claims, turning them over and examining the directions and warnings.

_Do not take if you are nursing or pregna..._

The bottle suddenly slips from Elle's clammy palm, landing with a crack that splits the cap open. Tiny white pills scatter across the floor in all directions, and another customer looks up from a tube of calamine lotion. His mouth turns down in an expression of annoyance and disdain.

Elle's hands are shaky; electrical shocks jump between her fingers as she suppresses the urge to burn him to a twisted, smoking crisp. Still trembling, she snatches another item from nearby shelves, hissing "Just... fuck you, then," to the other customer over her shoulder as she hurries down the aisle.

*****

The entire walk home from the pharmacy she's able to keep the thought from her mind. The clack-clack-clack of her heels on the pavement creates a welcome distraction, and she's even glad for each chilly gust of wind.

Gabriel waits for her, sitting on the edge of his chair and jumping to attention when he hears her key rattle in the door. She marches right past him and goes straight to the tiny bathroom in his apartment.

"Elle, can I..." Gabriel starts, following her, confused. "Can I take your coat?"

She pushes it to the back of her mind even as she drops her coat on the tile floor, even as Gabriel knocks softly, though relentlessly, on the door, as though he's afflicted with separation anxiety. Even as she sets the test on the lip of the sink, patiently waiting for it to register one blue line or two, she keeps herself occupied by tapping her shoes against the floor, rapping out a disjointed rhythm.

It's when she says it out loud that it suddenly becomes tangible, real. A real thing - a real _problem_.

As soon as she'd says it out loud, Gabriel runs his hands through his hair over and over and over again. "_Pregnant_," he repeats, a tone of wonder in his voice. "Wow. Pregnant." He begins pacing across his apartment, his strides (normally so long and confident) short and staccato now, like he's just been kicked in the gut. "Jesus Christ, Elle, I never imagined - this is just so unexpected." He spins on his heel and gazes into her eyes, his own twinkling with moisture. "This is _amazing_, Elle," he says, a slow smile coming to his face. "I'm going to be a father. We're going to be parents."

But while he's busy processing the possibilities, she comes to a decision of her own. "I'm not going to do this," she tells him, her eyes averted.

"You're... what?" Gabriel falls to his knees at Elle's feet, taking her hands in his. "Elle, Elle - look at me," he says soothingly. "Elle - I know, it's a lot to handle, this is a huge deal..."

"I'm not doing this," she tells him, shaking her head emphatically, her face still turned away from his. Her voice is devoid of all emotion, showing no trace of how mad or upset she might be.

"But, Elle -"

"I'm not," she repeats. "I _won't_."

"You don't mean that. You haven't even thought about it. You need to give it a chance to sink in." He still smiles, a comforting sort of smile.

Elle thinks it's patronizing. "Stop _telling me_ what I need to do, Gabriel," she says menacingly.

The smile fades from his face, and his eyes turn cold behind his glasses - in an instant he reverts from kind and loving Gabriel Gray to someone he used to be.

"Don't make me _make you_, then," he hisses back.

*****

In the morning, Gabriel wakes up alone.

_**Such a big ocean...**_

He's still in bed when Angela arrives. She knocks once, twice, three times - out of politeness, because she doesn't really expect him to answer the door. She sighs and lets herself in with the key that he'd given her.

With one hand she flips on the light switch while in the other she carries a shopping bag from Century 21, now filled with containers of homemade soups. She sets the bag on the kitchen counter near the doorway, opens the fridge, and shoves aside some of the decaying contents - old lunchmeat, sour milk - to make room. "I brought you something to eat, Gabriel," she calls out into the apartment. "I'm putting them in the fridge. That way you can microwave them later, or put them on the stove..."

Chicken noodle, tomato rice, lentil (her specialty); so many varieties, all made herself from scratch. Perhaps it is an indication of having too much time on her hands since being downsized from the Company recently, like Gabriel, but perhaps it means something more than that. She's become increasingly maternal over these past few months - affectionate, loving even - and with Nathan and Claire supporting Pinehearst publicly, and Peter... God knows what Peter is up to, now... she's adopted Gabriel as a genuine outlet for her motherly instincts. She's begun to believe in her own untruth. She is his mother. She _is_ his mother.

She shuts the refrigerator door as Gabriel comes stalking out of the bedroom cloaked in his comforter, blinking as he steps into the light, stark and artificial. His beard has started to grow in fully; he's found no reason to shave or shower or even change his socks for several days.

"Oh, Gabriel," Angela tsk-tsk-tsks, opening her arms to embrace him. He clings to his comforter but lets himself lean into her hug, sighing as she presses the side of her face into his chest. As she pulls away, she clutches his shoulder, breathing deeply as she takes in the pitiful caricature he's become. A look of recognition crosses her face momentarily, and Gabriel wonders whether she'll comment on the fact that he's wearing the same Queensborough Community College t-shirt he had on when she'd visited the day before yesterday.

If she notices she holds her tongue. Instead the corners of her eyes crinkle and she forces a smile to her face. "Are you hungry, Gabriel? I could heat something up for you."

"What did you bring?" he asks, his voice scratchy.

"A few soups. Tomato rice, chicken noodle, wedding..." She stops when Gabriel cringes. Inwardly she curses herself for being insensitive as he sinks into the plush chair behind him, groaning. Of course she'd known he meant to propose to Elle. Even if he hadn't told her himself, she had seen it in a dream. "I'm sorry, Gabriel, I didn't think that it... I just wasn't thinking." She takes the empty chair beside him, leaning forward and placing her hand on his. "Still haven't heard from her? Not at all?"

"I should never have let her leave," Gabriel whines. "I should be _looking_ for her."

"You're in no state to find anything," Angela says, unable to keep from scolding. "It seems you can't even find your way to your dresser drawer for a change of clothes."

"I should go find her," he says, not listening.

"Gabriel, look at me," Angela says, cupping the side of his face in her palm, cold and soft. She turns his face towards hers before she goes on. "A woman doesn't leave without good reason. I doubt very much that you'd find her. Trust me, she'll return to you when she's ready." She wishes she knew what else she could tell her son to reassure him. As far as Angela knows, Elle's father hasn't even noticed her leaving. There's always another weapon, always someone else to use as bait, after all.

Gabriel doesn't reply. He averts his watery eyes, and he inhales raggedly as he turns away.

Angela heaves a sigh of frustration. She's never been able to put up with this kind of self-pitying nonsense - not from herself, not from her sons. "Get up. Go shower. Get dressed," she commands.

"What for?"

"We're going to church."

It's not the nearest to Gabriel's apartment, but it's the closest one Angela knows of with a service at noon. Our Lady of Mercy, it's called, with a bright brick facade pleasing landscaping: grass sloping up to the sides of the building, with a plaster figure of Christ's mother out front.

It has been quite a while since Angela Petrelli has attended Mass with anyone. She knows Nathan still goes to services on holidays and holy days, but it's more for the sake of his image and less for the sake of his soul. Peter had always retained the dreamy attitude of a mystic but the services themselves had done nothing to weigh down his lofty ideals; he'd stopped going with her when he was in high school.

Every time she visits a church, Angela reflects on the strange circumstances that have led her here. She had not been raised Catholic; in fact, she'd converted in order to marry Arthur, receiving three sacraments - baptism, communion, confirmation - all on the same day. She still clings to these tenets of belief, of faith, even though the one who introduced her to them had not; the irony of it is not lost on her. She religiously attends Mass - always weekly, sometimes daily as well - and confesses her sins every Saturday, her confessions carefully worded so as not to be incriminating. The priests give her penance for these vaguely veiled sins; the specifics are between her and her God.

Ten Hail Marys and Ten Our Fathers silently recited to make amends for kidnappings, forced brainwashing, entrapment, all on a weekly basis. It's not enough - God knows it's not enough - but the routine gives her comfort, affirms her hope for eternal salvation. And perhaps this, too, is her penance: the adoption of a serial killer, the redemption of a psychopath through motherly love. She knows that in order to be forgiven herself, she must learn to forgive others the sins they've committed, and Sylar is right at the top of that list.

Gabriel keeps his head bowed during the opening liturgy, the prayers through chant and song. He remembers the responses, but only barely, mouthing along _kyrie elaison_ without lending his voice to the words.

The church is infused with midday sunlight, mellow and warm and welcoming, cast in the colors of the stained glass windows. His heart feels slightly less heavy, and he solemnly lifts his head. He lets his gaze wander across them, each portraying a scene in the life of a saint - each saint having once been a sinner. Between the windows (their beauty makes them hard to look at) he finds himself lingering at the Stations of the Cross: portrayals of Christ's journey to his death in relief. To death, and subsequently, to new life.

_Sinners made saints. Death to new life._

He stands, sits, kneels in conjunction with the rest of the congregation, but his heart isn't in the ritual. It's somewhere else, figuring out what it has to do in order to be like the men and women in the windows, in order to be like the man _cum_ God in between them.

The answer comes from something he feels from the woman beside him. _Forgiveness_. That's the key, that's the ticket, that's _everything_. He finally understands that he's never been able to forgive himself for his transgressions because all this time he's been holding a grudge. He finds it easier to release than he'd imagined. He doesn't need her to tell him that she's sorry. He just lets the feeling go - lets go of the anger, the disappointment, the betrayal, the blame.

In that moment Sylar dies, and Gabriel Gray is born into new life.

"Mass is ended," the priest calls out. "Let us go in peace, to love and serve the Lord."

"Thanks be to God," Angela answers, in unison with the other attendees.

Gabriel breathes in like it's his first breath. "Thanks be to God" - his first words. The memories of being Sylar turn dull and brittle and fall away like dead autumn leaves, and he feels naked and bare but finally ready to move on.

That night he dreams of Elle - she's been invading his sleep often enough these days, but this time it's different. It's more real somehow, more like being awake than asleep. He can feel her weight beside him in bed; it's as though the surface of the mattress slopes underneath her figure next to him. He doesn't open his eyes when he wakes up, unwilling to let go of this illusion. As dawn approaches, as the unwelcome sunlight slants in through the bedroom window, she fades away like a ghost, and Gabriel tries to go on about his day as though nothing ever happened.

_**...how do they find each other?**_

He dreams again, but this time it's not like anything else he's ever dreamed. It's more visceral, more real, more frightening. He gets the sense of some sort of impending danger, a looming threat. In his mind's eye he sees the Bennet home in Costa Verde, and even when he wakes up he can't shake the feeling that something terrible's going to happen.

The shrill ring of his cell phone jolts him into reality, and he answers alertly, even though the clock beside his bed says 3 a.m.

"Gabriel, we have to do something!" It's Angela Petrelli, and there's panic in her voice. "The Bennets - did you dream it, too?"

He understands implicitly. "I'm on my way there," he tells her, leaping out of bed and throwing clothes on haphazardly. "Sit tight, I'm already on my way."

*****

He arrives too late.

The screen door is shut, but the front door behind it hangs open, barely balancing from a hinge that's been violently bent. A flash of movement from within catches Gabriel's eye, accompanied by a quiet whine. The dog, it's the dog - what's his name, Mr. Puddles or Mr. Scruffles or something - and crouches just beyond the threshold, his fur damp and matted and his ears flattened against his head.

Gabriel hurriedly lets himself in, swinging open the screen door with such force that it snaps back on its hinge in protest. Aside from the door, nothing seems amiss in the foyer, but the dog's low crying makes him uneasy. The dog lingers at Gabriel's feet, sniffing his socks cautiously and following Gabriel as he moves from room to room. His claws click-click-click on the tile floor, and he leaves a trail of pale pink paw-prints behind him.

"Anyone here?" Gabriel calls out. "Anyone?" Bennet's study is in total disarray - papers flung about, chairs strewn across the floor, and potted plants and other knickknacks smashed and scattered across the carpet.

There's a crunch of paper and glass behind him; he turns and recognizes Claire's figure, silhouetted in the entranceway. At first Gabriel sighs with relief, glad to see another living soul, but Claire's brow is furrowed and her mouth turned downwards in a menacing scowl.

"What did you _do_, Sylar?" Claire hisses. "What did you _do_?"

"I..." Gabriel stammers, confused. He looks through the blinds and sees another car double-parked beside his own, and realizes that Claire wasn't here when this happened. She'd only just arrived, like him, and she doesn't know what happened any more than he does. "I... I didn't do anything," Gabriel replies, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't do anything."

"Where are they?" Claire bends to the floor and picks up a piece of shattered glass from the window, a glint of light illuminating its sharp edges. Blood trickles from her palm as she rushes up to Gabriel and holds the glass against his jaw, ready to sever his jugular artery with a simple turn of her wrist. "Where _are_ they, Sylar? What did you do with them?"

"I didn't do _anything_, Claire," Gabriel tells her again, his breath shallow and ragged; he can feel the raw edge of the Claire's makeshift weapon against his chin.

"I'm going to ask you this _one more time_, Sylar," she hisses. "Where is my family?"

Gabriel shudders, gripped by a kind of mortal fear he had never experienced. One slice, and his life is over. One slice, and everything is wasted. One slice, and he'd have to face judgment, and he still isn't ready for that.

But he isn't frightened _of_ Claire - instead, when he looks into her glistening, hate-filled eyes, he finds himself sympathizing with her. He knows what it is to feel the desperation of finding one's loved ones suddenly gone. He understands what it means to blame oneself for failing them, and he can relate to her need to blame someone else, her immediate thirst for vengeance.

"Claire, don't do this," he mutters, but it isn't enough, and she slams the edge of the glass into the soft skin where his jawline meets his neck.

Blood sprays forth from the wound, coating Claire's face and hands as Gabriel lurches forward. He reaches up to the glass jutting out of his neck, but it's too late to remove it - in mere seconds he staggers to the floor, struggling futilely to staunch the blood. Face-down on the carpet, a dark stain spreads beneath his head, and Claire indifferently wipes her palms on the sides of her jeans.

Gabriel's vision is strangely watery, and he blinks a few times to clear his eyes. He can feel his blood, warm and sticky, all on the side of his face, soaking through his clothes, but now instead of feeling himself fade away he feels himself getting stronger again. He runs his fingers along the edge of the glass, pinching it between his fingers and slowly taking it from his neck. More blood follows, but after another moment it stops completely and the wound tingles and tickles as the skin there knits itself back together.

His strength returning, Gabriel shoves himself up from the floor, looking up at Claire's incredulous expression.

"But I... I just killed you..."

Gabriel blinks a few times at her, trying to rationalize his resurrection in his own head.

"I just _killed_ you!"

"You... You did, I think," Gabriel says out loud, still dazed.

"It's not fair! I _killed_ you!" Claire screams, angry tears flowing from her eyes, her body racked by uncontrollable sobs. She picks up a stapler from her father's desk and flings it at him; it hits his face and falls away ineffectively. Gabriel shuts his eyes as he tries to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve, and when he opens them again, Claire is gone.

Shaken but otherwise unhurt, Gabriel unzips his blood-soaked hoodie and drops it to the ground, but even his t-shirt has been stained. Frowning, he scans around him to see where Mr. Muggles has gone to. He can hear the dog whining and scratching at something in another room.

He follows the sound to the kitchen, where the dog has gotten into the pantry and scratches at the wall behind the shelving. Curious, Gabriel bends down and feels along the wall until he finds the seams of a hidden door. He knocks once, softly, but there is no reply. He knocks again. "Anyone in there?"

A muffled voice comes unsteadily back. "...Gabriel?"

In an instant Gabriel forces his fingers through the cracks between the wall and the door - tearing his fingernails, which then instantly heal - and he rips the door away and reaches into the opening. A pair of hands grasp his forearms, and he gently leads the stowaway from the darkness into the light.

"Elle!" he cried, unable to stop his tears. "Elle, what are you doing here? What happened?"

She shudders and sobs and lets her head fall into his shoulder. Unsure of what else to do, he wraps his arms around her and rocks her back and forth, cooing and stroking her back as though she's a child.

*****

He lets her cry until she's exhausted from it. When she's done, he delicately lifts her up and takes her to the couch in the living room, an area that appears relatively normal compared to the disaster that lay in Bennet's office.

He doesn't ask, but when he gets her a glass of water she begins to explain anyway. "Noah was here for just a minute, warning us. Sandra helped me hide in the crawl space. Then there was... they just... I didn't see anything, I just heard..." she pauses for an unendurable time, as though waiting for her words to catch up with her.

"What were you doing here in the first place?" Gabriel asks, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She looks a mess - disheveled and smeared with sawdust from the secret compartment.

"I've been here since... since..." She hesitated. "I came here the morning I left you. The Bennets _did_ always seem like the ones with the answers."

"And you needed answers."

"I still don't even know what the questions are," she says, her eyes glassy as she stares at the ecru of the opposite wall.

She shuts her eyes and loops her arm into his, scooting closer to him. He feels an electric shiver when she lets her body come up against his, when she lays her weight against his own for support. He puts his arm around her and breathes in the scent of her hair.

"Is it too late to say I love you?" she asks.

He runs his hand along her arm, squeezing her gently. "I don't think it's ever too late, as long as you mean it."

"I mean it, I really do," Elle whispers.

They enjoy the silence for a while, letting the sensation of one another's touch say everything they don't know how to put into words.

"I was thinking," Elle says, her whisper breaking the quietude - "I was thinking Noah for a boy, and Sandra for a girl."

He holds his breath as he turns towards her sharply. He gazes at her upturned face through the cracked, cloudy lenses of his glasses, and he thinks for a moment that his hearing might be just as blurry as his vision. "What... what did you say?" he asks.

"Noah for a boy," Elle repeats. "Or Sandra. For a girl."

"Elle, I thought you were going to -"

"I couldn't do it," she interrupts, her lip quivering and her voice tremulous. "I couldn't go through with it." She looks upwards at him through a veil of tears as apologies begin pouring out of her. "I'm so sorry, Gabriel. I'm sorry I made you... and I let you think that... I'm sorry I was scared, I didn't stay, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry..." She continues even as she's racked by sobs again, even as Gabriel takes her face in his hands and presses his lips to hers.

"Shhh, shhh," he says. There's no need for her to apologize, because he's already forgiven her. He'd forgiven her a long time ago.

*****


End file.
